


Hidden Letters

by cumbercollins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbercollins/pseuds/cumbercollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenn has been pulled across an ocean by the request of her friend Martin who needs her help to try to control Benedict. He has come to be more and more like the Sherlock Holmes he plays on TV. But moving in with Benedict is not going to be without challenges, and Benedict is not exactly excited about having to share a flat with a stranger. He isn't worried about being a good flatmate. Ideas of shenanigans build up in his mind. Jenn's time here is not as easy or simple as she had hoped. </p><p>The main idea of this came from my friend and I just took her skeleton idea and tried to make a story from it for her. (So it's completely fictional and the people that actually exist-like Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch-are not meant to emulate their real actions or personalities. I changed their personalities to fit the story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here We Go...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenn Martin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jenn+Martin).



“Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for landing” a voice announces over the speakers. I inhale a deep breath, adjust in my seat, and click the seatbelt together. Just as I looked up a flight attendant pushes a trolley down the aisle and with a smile turned toward me. “Welcome to London!” he says, taking the empty cup from my hand. I just nod to him. I’m not sure how to answer; my mind is cluttered with thoughts. Thoughts about this new job, this new city, and especially this new man. I still don’t know what is going on and why I am going overseas.

I finally found a job after months of searching, but this one wasn’t much of my choice. Martin’s call had some urgency. We have been friends for… what feels like forever, so I trust that he won’t let me down. But he could at least tell me what I will be doing. But that’s Martin. He doesn’t waste time on little details.

The one thing I do know is that I am supposed to be a personal assistant to an actor during the filming of a television show’s third season. I haven’t seen the show before, but Brooklynn had told me about it. And she loves it, so it can’t be that bad, right?

But I couldn’t stop thinking of this actor. Martin told me that he plays the lead role, Sherlock Holmes. He said that is was not often that someone would meet him without liking him. He has loyal fans, great reviews, and an impressive filmography. But Martin was quite vague. I don’t even remember what the actor’s name is. I will just have to hope that Martin knows what he is doing and what he is getting me into.


	2. Welcome to London

The plane’s shaking always comes as a shock to me as the landing gear hits the warm pavement of the runway and rolls up to the terminal. My watch reads 8:35 A.M. as I glance down. I slowly unfasten my seatbelt and gather my jacket and backpack from under the seat, scooting out into a gap in the aisle created by a woman struggling to get down her luggage from the overhead bin. Once out of the airplane I toss my backpack onto my shoulder with a sigh. I am in London. And so is the beginning of a new life. Even if I’m not sure what that life entails. I don’t even have an idea of how I am leaving the airport. I think Martin said something about the creator of Sherlock picking me up, or something like that.

After making my way out to the lobby I scan the crowd. After searching the crowd for a few seconds a group split and I see a man with a sign. The sign simply reads “Martin’s American friend, Jenn.” My highest level of intellect would tell me that the man there is my ride.

As I approach him, the man grins. “Hello Jennifer. My name is Steven. I have someone else over at luggage claim to get your suitcases, so we can just go out to the car. Come on, don’t be shy!”

Umm, well, okay. I can almost feel the chill outside, so I put on my jacket and slug the backpack over one shoulder, following Steven out to the street where a cab waits. Another man, taller than Steven, is loading my brown suitcase into the trunk.

“Mark!” Steven calls out, “I found her.”

The taller man closes the back of the cab and walks over to meet the man, Steven. The other man (I assume his name is Mark) reaches his hand out to me and gives a smile through his ginger-coloured beard. “My name is Mark. You must be Jennifer.”

The man stands tall and proud, which is slightly intimidating. Honestly, Mark gives off a creepy vibe, and I he doesn’t seem very trustworthy. But I still meet his hand and gently shake it. “Jenn. You can just call me Jenn, sir.”

Steven snickers beside me. “Sir…” I hear him in a hushed tone.

“Just call me Mark. No need for formalities. Come along, we best be getting to the set.”

Steven then opens the back door of the cab and motions for me to get in. I obey his order and slide in, placing my backpack on my lap before buckling the seatbelt. Mark gets in behind me, followed by Steven who both sits across from me. Steven gives a signal to the cabbie and we were off.

The only sounds for the first few minutes of the ride are from the passing cars and the rumbling motor of the cab. Mark finally breaks the silence.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

I just sit on my side of the cab. I’m still not sure what to think of the whole situation. “I didn’t have anything huge back in the United States. And I needed the job. So thank you.”

This, of course, is not the whole truth. I left plenty behind. Not so many possessions, those have been few and far between with all the moving I have done after college. But Martin’s call came so quickly and I didn’t have the time to tell friends and family that I was leaving. It’s not unusual for me to go a day or two without talking to anyone, so I will just deal with calling people tomorrow. After I learn exactly why I came over. I don’t know what I would tell people if they asked me, anyways.

Mark nods and glances out the window.

“So this job,” Steven interjects “you must want to know what it is exactly.”

I pick up my head, eager to hear why I had been brought across the pond for some actor.

“You see, we have had some… difficulties with one of the actors. He has seemed to grow into his role as Sherlock Holmes a little too much and it is getting more and more difficult to control him. So we needed to find someone to help us keep an eye on him and keep him in line. So we talked to Martin-“

“And he suggested me?” I break in. “But why?”

“He told us that he had a friend back in the States that he thought would be able to handle a grown man without much trouble. So he called you and we made sure to get you out here without haste.”

Thanks, Martin. This is what I get for mentioning to him that I was in desperate need of a job. I can always count on him to pull through for me, even if the job is a little bit sketchy. Babysitting a grown man? Is this serious? Martin sure has a lot of explaining to do.

“North Gower Street.” Mark reads on a street sign. He then turns to me once again. “Sorry we couldn’t take you to the place you will be staying first; we need you on set. But the cab will take your cases to the flat and they will be waiting for you there.”

“Flat? I thought I was just going to stay in a hotel until I could find a place.” Wait, they already have a place for me to stay at? My own place?

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Mark says. “It will be best that you stay with Benedict. To keep track of him. And he lives within walking distance of our Baker Street, so it will be simple for you to get here and back.”

Benedict! That was his name! Benedict… Cucumberball, no, Cumpterbill, no… whatever his last name was. But they want me to _live_ with him? I don’t know the man; why would they just stick me in his house? I hope Martin isn’t behind this…

The cab stops at the curb and we climb out, me bringing up the end. When I got out I looked up to see the first familiar face since I got to this crazy city.  Martin had opened the door and now waits for me to get out. He ruffles his dirty blonde hair and pulls at his shirt; he seemed nervous, like a teenager going on his first date. But he had always seemed awkward and nervous. I suppose that’s why we are friends. He immediately stretches out his arms and brings me in for an embrace, holding me tight. “It’s been too long, “ he says in my ear.

“Hello, Martin. I missed you too.” I respond. I am so glad to finally see him.  

He ends our hug, stretching out his arms but still hold on to my shoulders. I can see his bright blue eyes staring back at me. “I sure have the job for you. Just you wait.” Martin turns and moves one hand down to my wrist. He guides me towards the cameras and people with clipboards. When I look back at Steven and Mark, who are still next to the cab, they just give each other a smirk and go back to talking. “Ready to meet the man that brought you here?” Martin asks.

Am I? Am I really ready to meet the person that is creating my new life? How is this supposed to play out? Hello, I’m Jenn and Martin called me yesterday to bring me across an ocean so that I can be your babysitter. Yeah, that would turn out wonderful.

Martin passes what seemed to be everyone part of the crew without bothering to introduce me to anyone. We weave in and out of the crowd until finally getting to the other end of the set. Martin releases his grip and turns his shoulders to a spindly figure with sharp cheekbones. The figure looks down at me the way a skeptic would look at a ghost hunter- with boredom and a hint of confusion clouding his eyes. Martin’s glace shifts between me and the man as if he is trying to analyze the meeting of his two best friends. Which, for all I know, could be true. “Jenn, this is Benedict Cumberbatch. Benedict, this is your new personal assistant, Jenn Martin.”

Benedict turns his nose slightly upwards and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Yes, all right. It’s about time one of you came around.”

My nose crinkles involuntarily at the suprising lack of manners. “Hello Mister Cumberbatch.” If he won’t be nice I could at least try to be. I stick out my hand for a handshake, but it is met only with a harsh glance before being pulled back. I jerk up my shoulder to adjust my backpack.

There is silence for a couple of seconds before Martin feels the need to break it. “Why don’t you come with me and I can show you around?”

He grabs at my wrist once again to drag me around the set. He takes me to meet everyone and I do my best to remember everyone’s names. I learn that the two men that picked me up at the airport are the creators of this show, Sherlock, and it was their idea to bring in someone for Benedict. I meet everyone else-cast, crew, and even some people that lived in the area.

After shaking what seems to be everyone’s hand on the block and learning the names and titles of every person, Martin decided to take me to the nearby Speedy’s Café.

We sit down at the dark wooden table; I sit facing the door.

“Hungry?” Martin asks. He is _still_ smiling. It’s somewhat surprising how chipper he still is. I hear that actor work crazy hours; I thought that working so much would have worn him down at least a little bit. But he is still just as joyful as he was when I had been with him in the United States. No complaining on my part, that’s for sure.

“Starving! What do you suggest?” I ask as my stomach growled. Stupid airplane snacks.

Martin’s cheeks flush with a red hue. “There is something called the Watson Wrap; it’s named after my character on Sherlock.” How cute. Sometimes I forget that he is nine years older than me.

A waitress in her early 30s, though she doesn’t look it, approaches the table. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight bun and her eyes glimmer bright green. “Hello again, Mister Freeman,” the woman greets him as she pulls a pad of paper from her apron, “can I get you anything?”

“Yes, Mindy, a Watson Wrap for my friend here and a coffee for me, thanks.”

The woman’s demeanour quickly flips from confused to a form of fake joy as she notices me on the other side of the table. She grins. “Coming right up.” she says as she quickly spins on her toes and disappears behind the counter.

“Now we need to get through some business before we catch up. We will just get this out of the way and then I can hear all about your life in the U.S.” Martin puts a folder on the table and, turning it to me, opens it up to reveal a multitude of papers tucked between its covers.

The folder is stuffed with pictures, profiles, and schedules. Martin explains who everyone is and their jobs, adding in details of their habits and personalities. After going through everyone else, Martin pulls out the papers for Benedict. He explains how different Benedict is now from when they had begun filming. Martin’s face grows weary as he talks about the transformation and it is all too easy to see how much he misses the old Benedict in each wrinkle on his face. Martin tells me from across the table that my now “child” to babysit is usually either on set or home, but sometimes wanders off. Which worries him. Benedict had taken to not eating much, if anything, in a day and no longer enjoyed talking to anyone besides himself.

The waitress, Mindy, soon after Martin was finished telling me about Benedict comes up to the table with Martin’s coffee and my wrap, placing them on the table. Our conversation easily shifts from business to pleaser; Martin and I go on telling each other about our lives in both the U.S. and England.  We talk for what seems like hours before Martin decides that we had been there long enough.

“I suppose we should get you back to your new home,” he says as he dropped some pounds onto the table to pay for the food. He waves at Mindy before making his way to the door.

We pass through the door of Speedy’s to catch a cab; to catch a ride to my new life. 


	3. This Is Your "Home"

I step out of the cab and come around the side to meet Martin. I hastily approach the black door before stopping in front of it. Martin digs around in his jacket pocket before pulling out a gold key that shines under the street lights. He holds it out and I gently pluck it out of his open hand. I twirl it between my fingers, feeling the new metal that was warmed by my friend’s pocket.

“Try it out,” says Martin, snapping me out of my trance.

I move the key towards the lock with haste; I was super nervous about what was on the other side. My first experience with Benedict didn’t seem to go very well. The night is quiet, at least for being on a busy street.

I can hear the mechanisms in the lock click into place with the turn of the key. After the lock was quiet I pull out the key and wrap my hand around the brass doorknob that had been chilled by the November air. It turns as if another hand is on the other side working to keep it shut. Finally the knob turns all the way and I push the door open; the lights from the streets flood the entry way.

I step over the threshold of the flat, towards the dark belly of my new living place. Once my whole body has passed the threshold I look back to Martin. We exchange looks, having a conversation without words. He understands that I am scared. He understands that I don’t feel comfortable with moving in with someone I barely know the name of. Martin has always know me. We have always been able to tell what I am thinking through our looks. But he knows that I will be okay; I can see it. He knows Benedict has been acting strange, but I can somehow fix him; Martin fully believes it. And the look he gives me tells me that. His eyes are soft and the corners of his lips turn to show that smile that I had missed. (I didn’t realize how much I had missed it). It tells me that everything is going to work out and I always believe it- every time.

Consoled, I turn back towards the inside and feel the wall for a light switch. My hands finally find the smooth switch and I push it into the on position. The entryway is illuminated to reveal a staircase on the left and a hallway on her right. Martin then comes up beside me.

“That hall leads to another flat; Benedict’s is up those stairs.” He cuts in front of me to lead me up the stairs.

I stay close behind Martin. Some of the steps creak as weight is applied to them. I count each step and tried to remember each one that squeals when stepped on. Fourth, seventh, twelfth. I lock the numbers into my memory, just in case I will need to go up and down the staircase without waking Benedict in the future. Best to anger him the least amount possible.

At the top of the stairs there is a landing with a bike resting against the wall. It doesn’t seem to be used much, judging by the amount of rust stuck to its frame. Next to the bicycle is my brown suitcase; I grab the handle and turn back to Martin who is still in front of the door.

He motions to the door in front of us. “Ready?”

Now that you mention it, no, no I’m not ready. I really don’t want to do this, Martin. I don’t want to move in with this man that doesn’t seem to like me at all. I don’t want to leave everything I have ever known to come to this wacked-out country. I don’t want to do any of it. I’m ready to go home.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I spit out.

All I can think to do is heave a huge sigh before putting my backpack on both shoulders and move the suitcase to my other hand.

Martin lays his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. As long as I’m here, he won’t do a thing to hurt you. As crazy as he has become, Benedict still has respect for me. Maybe it’s because I’m his John Watson,” he shrugs.

I just give him my usual look of “now is not the time for your shenanigans, Martin” and his smile fades. He goes back to the door and knocks.

From the inside I hear two pieces of glass clink together then a shattering soon afterwards.  I throw a look of uncertainty at Martin and he just smiled back. “No worries. Probably just another experiment.”

The door swings open violently to show Benedict standing in the doorway. He is wearing a silky blue dressing gown over the grey button-up shirt and black pants I saw him in on set. His dark curly hair seems to live as his head moves from Martin, to me, and back to Martin.

“I’m busy, Martin,” he says “what do you want?”

“Remember Jenn? Your new assistant?” Martin replies.

Silence.

“The reason I was over here cleaning yesterday,” he hints.

Benedict looks down at me again. He straightens his spine, showing just how tall he is. I didn’t noticed how much taller he is than me.

“Right. Okay.” Benedict turns back into the apartment and Martin follows him; I stick close to my friend and my grip tightens on my suitcase.

The flat has is open, but the massive amounts of clutter around the edges restricts the size to make it seem smaller. The color scheme is dominated by neutral colors similar to his wardrobe. Upon entering the main living area I can see a fireplace on the other end (which looks like it hasn’t been used in ages). The kitchen looks used, but not much for food, at least not for edible food. Everywhere I look seems to be filled with something, whether it’s books, dishes, or miscellaneous papers.

Martin tosses a throw pillow from a chair to the sofa and sits down before inviting me to the seat across for him. I put my suitcase down next to the chair and situate myself in the high-armed furniture. This is the one thing that seems to have been used recently.

Benedict reappears from the kitchen with a teacup that is offered to Martin. I just get a look. I don’t know where to look… he is just staring at me…

He clears his throat. “You’re in my seat.”

Martin tries to back me up. “Benedict, come on-“

“My seat, Martin.”

Martin gives him a slicing look. I have no clue what to do; do I get up and give him the seat or do I stand my ground? I think Martin wants me to stay. And maybe if I don’t give him his way this time he won’t expect it more later on. Wow. He really is my child.

I decide to just stare at him. He does the same. It’s really weird to be staring at anyone, let alone this stranger. His eyes do not blink and the color seems to change from blue to green to gold; the longer we stare the more colors they shuffle through.

Our gaze is finally broken by Benedict. He raises his chin in the air and swivels, heading back to the kitchen. I think that means I win this one… But I can feel it in my gut that this is the first of many silent battles in the war that has become my life.

When I look at Martin he seems proud, like a parent watching his child stand up to a bully on the playground for the very first time. He flashes me a thumbs up, failing to be subtle.

 Benedict comes back to the room and passes me without seeming to notice. He goes to the couch opposite the fireplace and wraps his dressing gown around his body before throwing himself onto the sofa. Benedict’s back is turned to me but I can still hear him mumbling something under his breath.

I can hear Martin move in the chair and when I turn I notice he has removed his coat and slid up to the edge of the seat. I give him a look in attempt to ask him “now what?” He clasps his thick hands together, leans forward, and whispers “why don’t I show you your room now?”

He receives an agreeing nod from me before we both rise to our feet; I pick up my case from beside the chair. Before following my friend I look over at Benedict, who is still lying on the couch, muttering. I can’t make out what he is saying, but I assume that it is right along the same idea as what I am thinking: this isn’t going to work. I don’t want to be here. Why can’t we just go back to how things were?

I follow Martin down a short hallway that branches off from the kitchen. There are only three doors-one on each side and one at the end.

“The one at the end is the bathroom,” Martin informs me, “and try to move the least amount of things as you can. At least at one occasion.”

“Why?” I ask. “I have to move in with him and I can’t touch anything?”

“Benedict has taken to having things in certain places. Obsessive compulsive disorder kind of thing. When he gets more accustomed to you being here, I’m sure you can…break in the place a little bit more.”

Martin moves past me to come to the other side of the hallway. “This is Benedict’s room. I suggest not going in there. If he finds that you have even opened the door he will probably throw one of his tantrums.” He leans in, getting closer to my face. His tone grows more serious. “Never think that he won’t notice something. Odds are he _will_ notice and he may get upset and sulk. One time he had a fit that lasted four days. That wasn’t fun for one soul.”

Mental note: don’t go near Benedict’s bedroom. Done.

“Now, this,” Martin crosses the hall again and leans on the trim around the door, “this is your room.”

I straighten my spine, ready to see my room. Nervous, but ready. Martin crossed his arms and placed his head against the wall and crossed his left leg across his right one. “What are you waiting for; open it!”

I take a deep breath before reaching for the handle. I can’t bear to look, so I keep my eyes clamped shut until I feel it unlatch. My grip releases. Another deep breath. All I can hope for is that it won’t be a mess like the rest of the house, filled with experiments and papers. I hope for the best as I lightly push the door open with two fingers. There is a slight creek the first few inches, which comes as no surprise to me. I wait for the door to be completely ajar before flipping on the light switch.

The room is quickly illuminated and I immediately see that this room is not like the rest of the house. The whole room is tidy; nothing cluttered around the edges or piled on the shelves. The bed is made neatly with a little mint on the center of the fluffed pillow. Someone has a sense of humor.

And it is _clean_. And I don’t just mean that there is no dirt or a slight hint of formaldehyde. It smells like soap and fresh linen and… cologne? “Do I smell cologne?” I ask Martin, who is still leaned up against the doorway.

“Yeah, that was me… There was a bunch of junk in here, including a bottle of cologne. I accidently knocked it off a shelf when I was clearing out everything and the smell still lingers. It should fade.” He sniffs the air and then gives out a cough with the scrunch of his nose. ”Eventually.”

“Wait… So you did all this? Cleaned everything, washed everything, put the mint on the pillow? Nice touch by the way.”

Martin blushes. “Yup, that was me. I thought you might enjoy the mint.”

I still don’t enter the room; I want to take in all of the hard work my friend put into my coming here. From what I remember of Martin he doesn’t just clean. In fact, he hates cleaning unless he is told to. Even then he doesn’t enjoy it. But this time he put full effort into it. He is really taking pride into his work. He really tried to make this room look nice for me; I never realized how much it really meant to him that I am going to be living over here in London.

“I do.” I set my suitcase inside the door, next to the bed. Upon entering the odors are mixed around in the air.  I guess I will just have to get used to the smell (but anything could be better than formaldehyde). I don’t want to touch anything in fear that I will mess up the hard work that Martin had put into the room. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few old books, which may come in handy if I have some down time. There are some stains on the carpet, but I can feel that they had been shampooed over in attempt to lift the stains. “This is great, Martin.”

“Thank you. It was nothing, really, someone had to do it. I couldn’t have my American friend sleeping on that old couch out there, now could I?” He gives me his usual grin that I have missed so much.

I pull off my backpack and gingerly place in next to my feet as I sit down on the bed. I feel the fresh sheets under my finger tips. The smell is indescribable. It’s hard to remember the last time I had the feel of newly cleaned bedding between my fingers. At least, cleaned with detergent that wasn’t from a machine that runs on quarters. “It’s wonderful, Martin. All of it,” I tell him as I look around the room.

Upon hearing my comment he joined me on the mattress. This time when he looked at me his eyes look tired and somewhat sad. “I’m just glad you were able to come. Benedict has really changed, and not for the better. Nobody here has been able to do anything. Someone had to be brought in and I didn’t know who else to call.” His face is a shadow.

“Don’t worry,” I say as I touch his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. It will just take some… getting used to.” Martin nods.

Just then there is clanging out towards the kitchen. I peek my head out the door, hoping to see what all the commotion is from. Benedict is swiftly looking through the cupboards for something. I decide to initiate my first conversation with my roommate.

I take a deep breath and walk down the hallway. I try to keep my head held high, hoping to give the impression that I am not intimidated. Which, of course is a lie. Benedict seems like someone that could blow at any minute and I, for one, don’t want to be within range of the explosion. That’s not the way I want to start my time here.

“Mister Cumberbatch, what are you doing?” I ask from the hallway, minding my distance.

He avoids my answer to continue searching the shelves. It is hard to tell if he can hear me or if he just doesn’t want to reply.

“Mister Cumberbatch,” I try again.

He leans over a rack of test tubes and carefully uses an eyedropper to place different colored liquids into the glass tubes. “Experimenting, obviously.”

I roll my eyes and part of me wants Benedict to see but the other half hopes that he doesn’t. I love sarcasm just as much as the next guy, but sass doesn’t go very far with me. Especially after having to deal with whinny little sisters. There is an unknown odor traveling through the air and mixing with the formaldehyde. “What is that smell?”

“Probably the new specimens in the oven. I needed an insulated place for incubation of fungi on different plant species. A simple procedure.” Benedict never fails to keep his unblinking eyes on his testing.

Martin comes past me and grabs something from under the sink. He hands me a box of small red squares on white string. “These are for when something starts to stink,” he explains. “Just hang one near the spot and it should soak it up. At least most of it.”

I take the box from him and pull out one of the squares. Benedict watches me tie one to the oven’s handle and put the box back under the sink. Only his ocean blue eyes move.

“I think it is about time for me to get back home,” announces Martin. We meet on the opposite side of the table for a hug; the embrace tightens as he whispers “good luck” in my ear. He releases to hold my shoulders again before giving them a pat and turning towards the door. Martin spins back around as he remembers some parting words. “Watch yourself, Benedict. And don’t stay up all night again; we shoot at nine in the morning.”

Benedict gives out a grunt and Martin shakes his head before waving goodbye to me once again. I raise my hand as well and wish him a good night’s sleep. Only Benedict and I are left in the flat.

“I am going to bed. I expect we should leave here around 8:45 tomorrow.” Instead of waiting for a response, something I don’t expect to get, I head back to my manicured bedroom to finally rest.


	4. One Day Down, __ More To Go

The alarm buzzes at 8:00 the next morning. My hand wanders to the bedside table and stumble upon my glasses. I place them on top of my nose and ears before rolling out of the warm covers and onto the cold oak floor. The atmosphere feels almost too quiet so I open my door slowly and look out towards the kitchen. Benedict is still at the table but piles of books have taken the place of the test tubes that now found a nesting spot next to the toaster.

Deciding not to bother him, I turn to the other end of the hallway and sluggishly walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I take of my glasses again and splash cold water in my face. Then I dig out the toothbrush I had placed in my pajama pocket upon getting out of bed. Just as I squeeze the toothpaste from its dwelling the door swings open. Benedict stands on the other side of the threshold staring back at me. The toothbrush stays suspended above the sink. “May I help you?” I ask.

His jaw drops but no words come out as if his tongue is holding them back. He pulls it back up and straightens his back. “I forgot you were here,” he says finally, almost embarrassed.

“Well I am. Do you need the bathroom? I can finish this out there.” I point to the hallway on the other side of him.

“Yes. That will do.”

He twists his slender body 90 degrees and I slide past him with the toothbrush still in my grasp. The door shuts behind me.

My eyes roll and I stick my toothbrush to the back of my mouth and start brushing. I go back to my bedroom to pick out the day’s clothes. Should I be casual, professional, or semi-professional? I try to think back to how the crew was dressed yesterday but only a vague image appears in my mind’s eye. I opt for a green sweater I had gotten as a Christmas present last year and some dark jeans.

There are noises from the hallway so I suspect that Benedict is out of the bathroom. I finish brushing my teeth and finish getting ready. Then I slip on my shoes before going out to the living room to find Benedict to leave.

I find him in his chair with a violin, gently plucking at the strings with his long fingers. “Ready?” I ask while slipping my arms into my coat.

A sarcastic sigh passes his lips and his head tips back with closed eyes. “Yes, mother.”

But he doesn’t move from the cushion, so I toss his jacket onto his lap. “Get moving then. We need to get to the set.”

He shoots me a dark look and lifts himself from the seat. The violin is gingerly placed back in its stand so that he can put on his coat before leading me out the door and down the steps. He smiles and waves to the older woman as we come to the end of the stairs. She waves back and tells him “have a good day at work, dear” and directs “good luck with this one” towards me. I return a “thank you ma’am” before following Benedict into the cold. Benedict goes to the edge of the sidewalk and lifts his hand into the air to signal for a cab. When the cab pulls up he opens the door and goes to the other side to get in.

After getting over the couple seconds of shock I crawl into the back seat as well. We sit in silence for a minute or two before I build up the courage to speak. “Who was that woman?” I finally spit out.

“That’s Gale. She lives in the place under mine. Sometimes she brings baked goods; not that I need any sweets. Sugar only leads to dwindling mental capabilities.” The answer is quick and precise.

“She seems nice,” falls out of my mouth. What are you doing, Jenn? Shut up!

Benedict turns to look at me, lifting his chin. “Yes,” he replies, his facial expression shifting more from boredom to suspicion, “she is.” For some reason he is sounding more and more like Alan Rickman with every word that comes out of his mouth. But maybe I am just crazy.

I give him a nod and look forward again. The only thing to be heard the rest of the ride is the busy streets and hum of car motors.

After what feels like an eternity on the roads the cab pulls over and we pull ourselves out into the crisp autumn air. The entire set seems busy, just like when I arrived. Whenever a face passed mine I try to remember the name that belongs to it, usually failing- I’ve never been good with names.

Soon I can see a familiar face through the many bodies, smiling and waving to get my attention. “Jenn! You made it- the both of you,” it cries out.

I glance up at Benedict; he has made is way over to my side. His hands clasped behind his back, he looks onward as if searching the crowd for someone specific.

“I don’t know if he slept at all. When I woke up he was still at the table,” I tell Martin. I’m supposed to report these things to him, right?

“Yes. Well.... That’s nothing new.” Martin’s hands are behind his back as well; he looks up at Benedict disapprovingly and Benedict just looks on. His attention turns back to me. “How about I give you a formal tour. Yesterday was rushed.”

I spent the next ten minutes being pulled around (again) and learning where everything was, from the main camera area to where the coffee pot is kept. Just as I was meeting the last person left, the makeup artist, Martin was called over to start filming. “Just keep an eye on Ben-get him what he needs and we will meet up for lunch.” He waves a good-bye and goes off towards the makeshift 221B Baker Street.

The day seems pretty low-key. I just have to stay around where they were filming and bring Benedict water bottles, a snack, and things like that. So far it is a pretty easy job. But it’s the first day and there is no way to predict what could be waiting in the days to come.

Lunchtime rolls around and I meet up with Martin at a little café a couple blocks from where we are filming. Benedict comes along too. He is quiet the whole time and always glances over at Martin and me, as if he is trying to analyze every movement, every blink, every word. This should creep me out but for some reason I have almost gotten used to it. Almost as if I expect it from him.

The last half of the day went the same way as the first half-simple. Steven came up to me at the end of the day and handed me a card along with a scrap of paper with two numbers on it. “The card just needs to be activated and you can use your phone to call back to the States.” He pointed to the paper. “The top number is mine and the bottom is Mark’s. Martin gave my your mobile number, if that’s all right.”

“Of course, yeah, that’s fine.” I feel that card with my fingertips and look up at Steven. It looks like he has more to say so I just wait.

“Well,” he starts, “I would like to adjust your job description a little bit.”

Steven goes on about the fact that he has some paper work that needs to be done (just some little things like answering mail) and would like me to help out with it. I would stay at Benedict’s house, he explains, but be on call just in case they need me on set. The cast can watch him only while he was at work, so I need to be their eyes when he’s home. I agree Steven thanks me with a sincere smile.

Our gaze is broken when Steven looks past me down the street a bit to someone next to a black taxi. “Looks like Ben has gotten a cab for you two,” he points out.

When I turn around Benedict is standing next to a cab with the door open, looking at me. He seems impatient and almost frustrated that I would waste his time by talking to someone when it was time to leave. I say goodbye, gather the first of my papers from Steven, and jump in the cab towards home. If you can really call it home…


End file.
